How Incarcerated People Are Building Political Power in Washington State

Last April, when Washington State passed legislation ending the practice of automatically increasing adult sentences based on juvenile felony records, it marked the successful culmination of conversations that began in prison yards and rippled outward into rigorous organizing. 

Years before, many of us incarcerated in Washington realized we were serving longer sentences because of our youth convictions. As kids, we had spent years in juvenile detention. When we later appeared in courts as adults, the things we had done as children were used to add more years—sometimes decades—to our sentences. In effect, we were punished twice for the same offenses. We recognized that this injustice was feeding mass incarceration, so we mobilized, forming partnerships with advocates on the outside and launching a concerted campaign to educate lawmakers about the need for change.

This would have been unimaginable just a few years earlier. Until recently, Washington prisons were dead zones for legislative information and influence. The little we knew of what was going on in Olympia came from snippets caught on TVW—the state’s legislative affairs channel, which is not available in all prisons—or heard from people on the outside. Each year, lawmakers would debate and often pass bills that carried staggering consequences for incarcerated people, almost entirely without our knowledge or input.

In 2020, Dr. Chelsea Moore and Christopher Blackwell (one of the authors of this piece and now The Appeal’s Contributing Editor) co-founded Look2Justice (L2J), a nonprofit organization that works to empower system-impacted people to advocate for policy and legislative change. Since L2J’s founding, the group has trained more than 500 incarcerated people with their Advocacy 101 training, which teaches attendees about the legislative process and how to communicate with lawmakers as constituents. This sort of advocacy is one of the only ways incarcerated people in Washington can use their voice in these spaces, as they are otherwise barred from most basic forms of democratic participation due to felony disenfranchisement.

There are now L2J lead organizers in prisons across Washington. These organizers share information about legislation, lead civic trainings, conduct surveys, and represent incarcerated voices during legislative discussions. This is critical work, and the pay is commensurate. While prison wages often amount to pennies on the hour, L2J offers $25 an hour. Instead of speaking for incarcerated people, L2J is creating leaders on the inside and equipping them to catalyze change beyond prison walls. 

“My work makes people feel as though they matter, and that the legislative structure is working on their behalf,” said Andrew Rowe, a lead L2J organizer at Monroe Correctional Complex. “It reinforces the idea of collectiveness and inclusiveness.”  

With support from L2J, several incarcerated people have testified before state lawmakers about legislation that would directly impact their lives, including bills to change the cost of prison communications and rein in extreme sentencing practices and the use of solitary confinement. This not only better informs lawmakers, it also makes incarcerated people feel like they have a say in what becomes law. 

“Many of us felt left out of the general conversation around legislative changes,” said Annousheh Adab, a lead organizer at Washington Corrections Center for Women. “L2J has become a vehicle for incarcerated women to join a conversation that has been happening without us for far too long.” 

L2J’s monthly newsletter goes out to nearly 20 percent of Washington State’s incarcerated population, updating recipients on legislation status and keeping them engaged in advocacy efforts.

“Being informed on what bills are being presented, and what legislators are sponsoring them allows me to feel connected to the movement towards ending mass incarceration,” said Joseph McClain, who has spent more than 20 years of his life in prison.

This sense of connection can give incarcerated advocates a renewed sense of purpose, explained Imran Vahora, who is serving a prison sentence of more than 30 years. “Learning about a bill that may offer me a second chance at freedom encourages me to stay out of trouble and focus on my education, which can be difficult when you don’t anticipate going home any time soon,” said Vahora.  

L2J is seeing concrete results. After the enactment of HB 1324, the juvenile sentencing reform law which Moore and Blackwell wrote about at the time for The Appeal, approximately 18 percent of all people entering the criminal legal system in Washington State each year will receive significantly shorter sentences. The very people who were impacted by this harmful policy played a leading role in ensuring no one else faces a similar injustice. 

But with every step forward, there are also setbacks. Earlier this year, lawmakers failed to pass a separate bill to make the juvenile sentencing aspect of HB 1324 retroactive. The legislation cleared the state house, but stalled in a state senate committee. 

While lawmakers acknowledged it no longer made sense to use juvenile points to increase adult sentences, they stopped short of passing a measure that would directly benefit many of the incarcerated people who had successfully advocated for an end to the practice. 

Those of us who worked on the bill were devastated, but we knew the fight must continue. Within hours of the bill’s failure, incarcerated organizers were huddled up on the phones, strategizing for the next legislative session. 

“The criminal justice system is a very cruel and oppressive social construction that is ruining our nation,” said Marcus Reed, L2J’s lead organizer in Clallam Bay Corrections Center. “As both a victim and survivor of this system, it is a personal obligation to assist in creating positive changes whenever possible.”

ICYMI—From The Appeal

The Arizona Supreme Court ruled that the state can enforce a near-total abortion ban from 1864. The ban allows no abortions except to save the life of a pregnant person and carries a mandatory two- to five-year prison sentence for people who provide abortions.

The federal Bureau of Prisons has suggested banning imprisoned people from using social media—but First Amendment defenders say the rule would chill free speech and silence whistleblowers.

Lawmakers in Louisiana tried and failed to track cops who leave one police department after committing misconduct and find work at another. But state regulators also refuse to release data that would help journalists and the public do so.

The nation’s largest prison telecom company, Securus, is on the verge of bankruptcy. The company is on the hook to repay $1.3 billion of debt this year. Its failure would represent a remarkable victory for advocates—and a potential beginning of the end for the industry as we know it.